


One Fixed Point

by shirleyholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Canon References, Alternate Universe, First Kiss, Fluff, Historical, Humor, Minor Angst, Past Drug Use, Period Typical Attitudes, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock-centric, Time Travel, Victorian, excessive referencing of canon, purely indulging myself here not going to lie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-20 20:05:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes/pseuds/shirleyholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:  ACD Holmes somehow inhabiting BBC Sherlock's world... I'd really like to see just Holmes reacting to the mustacheless modern version of his best friend. </p><p>.............</p><p>When he wakes, his first thought is that Watson will not be pleased.</p><p>*WARNING: ALL STORIES ARE ON HIATUS WHILE I'M ABROAD. WILL BE CONTINUED IN DECEMBER, SO VERY SORRY FOR THE WAIT"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snogandagrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/gifts).



> My dear snogandagrope-- this one's for you, because you encourage me in all my madness and because you planted the idea for a certain scene in my head and it's been rattling around in there ever since, trying to find a home. Whelp. It did. Cheers.
> 
> Warning for really excessive referencing of canon. I'll try to put all the relevant quotes up as I go-- should be about a week to edit it and fully bring it over from the kink meme.

When he wakes, his first thought is that Watson will not be pleased. 

The experiment was quite well planned, of course, and the addition of the alcohol to the curious, blackened compound he had found in Mr. Tregennis’ lamp ought to merely have been the first step towards identifying the nature of the said substance. It was a simple procedure—fool proof in fact.

But the last he recalls is some sort of vague wooshing sound and then the sensation of being slammed bodily backwards, as if someone had somehow managed to claw out his very brain and then pound it into the floor. Nonsense of course—merely reminiscent of an explosion, like so many before it. 

Ah. An explosion. 

No, Watson will not be pleased at all. 

Be that as it may, it can not be helped at the moment. He puts aside thoughts of Watson’s inevitable displeasure and concentrates on his limbs instead. He’s pleased to discover that, though they feel a trifle more gelatinous than usual, they appear quite intact. 

A rough hand shakes his shoulder before he can do a more in depth inventory.

“What have you done now?” demands a gruff and barely familiar voice . Hands grasp the sides of his arms and shake and it’s so entirely unnecessary that he snaps open his eyes before he means to. The room, predictably, spins about him and he lets out a soft grunt of annoyance until it resettles. 

And then he freezes. Because something is very, very wrong indeed.

In retrospect, he ought to have known it from the moment he felt that the boards under his fingertips were slightly smoother than the oak ones he’s familiar with. If not, then the discoloring of the wallpaper, the unfamiliar brush of curls on his forehead, the odd constriction of his shirt—one thousand details, and he, fool that he is, takes at least 30 seconds to process everything. The room is entirely different, though still, quite clearly, 221B Baker Street. The noises from outside the window are more heavily chaotic than usual—it is entirely too much, all the new sights and sounds that assault his senses. 

And then, of course, there is the tiresome matter of the agitated little man by his side. 

“Listen, I don’t know what you thought you were playing at—are you alright?” A warm hand sweeps familiarly over his brow. 

“Concussion?” asks the little man. He looks genuinely worried, for someone who has never laid eyes on him before. Possibly he is delusional—Sherlock has those people nowadays. The absurd ones, who believe they know every intimate detail of his life and who he suspects might lick his shoes, if he was so inclined (he is not so inclined—saliva is a rather dirty thing and Mrs. Hudson does a perfectly serviceable job with the shoes). But those people tend to be considerably younger and overwhelmingly of the female persuasion. Besides which, Watson would never allow—

“Watson,” he barks out, his eyes scanning the flat rapidly. 221B indeed—a room might be replicated, but not the buildings across from it, though even those are not quite as he remembers them.

“Ye-ess?” says the little man questioningly. Sherlock had almost forgotten about him. But now he snaps his eyes back. Well, the fellow appears quite sane, for all his odd get-up and strange demeanor. And, most gratifyingly, it appears that the name is familiar to him.

“It is possible that I might be suffering hallucinations from the Devil’s foot compound,” Sherlock tells him haughtily. “I request that you bring me Doctor Watson immediately—no doubt he is far better equipped to handle the situation than you yourself are.” 

The man stares at him, his blue eyes widening. “Fucking hell, Sherlock,” he says, finally. “How hard did you hit that head of yours?”  
.......

The little man leaves after dumping him unceremoniously on the couch. Sherlock can hear the steady stream of profanity and insults even as he stomps up to the second floor. Sherlock presses his fingers together thoughtfully. 

It is possible that he has (slightly) miscalculated. Possibly, this is no hallucination. Or, more probably, it is a remarkably realistic one, the results of which might have long-standing implications for science-- either way, Sherlock decides to play along with this man. Of no little import to his decision is the fact that his legs are entirely refusing to cooperate with him at the moment.

But, after all, the man (his delusion, he reminds himself), seems relatively well-meaning—harmless, surely. Though, of course, there are saner looking people who have appeared mad and this man is certainly a little unhinged, if nothing else. If his overtly familiar manner and crudeness did not already indicate so, the fact that he apparently believes himself to be Dr. John Watson says much about the state of his mental health.

Harmless, Sherlock tells himself for the umpteenth time, as the man re-enters with a small medical kit in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Entirely harmless and probably imaginary in the bargain. -

The man sets down his supplies and glares at him in a way that is uncomfortably familiar and Sherlock decides on the spot that this is most certainly a dream. 

“So what was it?” he asks. “New case?”

Interesting.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, after considering a moment. “A new case. One involving a drug with certain hallucinogenic properties. ”

The man’s eyes narrow further. “A drug which you will not, at any point, be using on either me or yourself, right?”

Sherlock had only been planning on using it on John Watson, who this man is not, and, technically, he has already used it on himself and therefore will not be using it on himself in the near future. Therefore--

“No,” Sherlock says with a clear conscience. “I will not be using it on either you or me at any point in the future.”

Remarkably, the little man is not convinced. “You already used it on yourself, didn’t you?” he demands. Sherlock fidgets, annoyed at not being believed, even if it is by a dream apparition. 

“I am a man of my word. I would not lie. “

“Yes you would,” says the strange creature again. “And you do it all the time, you git.” He unscrews the lid of a bottle and hands Sherlock 2 small, white capsules. 

“Here. Take these and go to sleep for a bit and I’ve no doubt you’ll be fully up to harassing me in the morning.”

“Is that your official opinion as a doctor?” Sherlock asks curiously. 

For the man is a doctor, of that there is no doubt. A soldier even, at one point, though he has now been a civilian for quite some time—it is familiar. An understandable leap for his grasping mind to make, no doubt. 

Though it feels quite real when the little man smiles at him and brushes a gentle hand across his cheek. Impressive stuff, this Devil's Foot 

“Yeah, it is,” he says gruffly. “Go to sleep, Sherlock. I think it’s the couch for you tonight.”

“Of course,” Sherlock says agreeably. The sooner he drops off, he reasons, the sooner he can wake up and put this supremely odd experience behind him. 

The man hesitates as he turns to leave, “Call out if you need anything,” he says. “I’ll be right here.”

Sherlock had been rather afraid of that. 

“I will not be requiring your services,” he tells the dream-man firmly. The man looks resigned, but his face falls just a little. But more surprising is the little stab of guilt Sherlock feels at hurting him.

Dream people, he reminds himself crossly. Dream people and now he’s worrying about their feelings.

Perhaps he did hit his head rather hard after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I totally changed the timeline of the original canon so that I could have Devil's Foot early. But this follows Holmes timeline (well, as much as it CAN be followed) beyond that, unless specifically noted.
> 
> Holmes here is from 1888-- before Hound and after Scandal. He's about 34 in his time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References you might want (but certainly don't need) at the bottom, as they will be with every chapter. This chapter is particularly loaded, but feel totally free to ignore the endnotes-- you'll still understand the story and you'll be less appalled at what a huge nerd I am.

When he wakes, his head is slightly less muddled and his legs appear to be considering cooperating with him again. So far, so good--- except for the tiny little detail that 221B has yet to revert to its normal self. Oh, and the little man is still here, snoring lightly in one of the armchairs. Can’t be comfortable, particularly with the old leg injury that still bothers him.

Well, at the very least, he himself is—Sherlock sits up, excited at the thought. But of course, he has yet to see his own reflection. He feels the same and his hands look quite as usual, down to the calluses from playing the violin, but he must see for himself. 

Conveniently, there is an odd type of mirror placed quite near him on the coffee table. It's propped up on a queer stand, with multiple buttons, and the surface is dark, unlike any mirror he has ever seen, but the reflection is fairly adequate. Sherlock bites his lip as he lifts it and examines himself. 

As expected, he does not look entirely different, though, he must admit, there are definite alterations. His nose, for one, is straighter and a great deal more aesthetically pleasing, if one cares for such things. For another, his normally squared chin has acquired a rounded, receding aspect to it (he finds himself less than enamored by that). His lips too, are larger, his hair longer and the entire effect is slightly more boyish than he’d prefer. Feminine, even, one might say, though that might just be the excessive amount of grooming--quite a change from his usual bohemian air. 

But his eyes have not changed. Small and piercing, with no readily discernible color. Witch’s eyes, if one is being fanciful, though Sherlock most assuredly never is. 

He sets the mirror down carefully, as it appears heavy and ornate, and cautiously presses a button. Nothing happens. He tries a series of them and then starts as a light begins to flicker behind the screen.

A curious sort of typewriter then, not a mirror. And it wants a passcode from him.

He stares at the screen in frustration and then swivels his head, trying not to wake the other man as he takes in his surroundings, looking for any clue. There’s a particular spot on the wallpaper that catches his attention and he frowns at it, just as a voice sounds behind him. 

“Sherlock?” the little man asks blearily. “You all right there?”

Sherlock hastily pushes the—typewriter—away. To his horror, the light stays on and the man’s eyes flick to it. He doesn’t seem bothered, though—why, if anything, he seems pleased.

“Couldn’t figure it out this time, could you? You won’t you know—I promise you that.” 

He grins and Sherlock brushes off his relief and takes him in for the first time.

His clothes are crumpled and he’s slumped in the chair opposite the couch, which indicates that he has slept there for quite a few hours. That he does not normally sleep there is evident by the stiff way he holds his neck. Nor has he merely drifted off there, for he has changed into what could only be nightclothes and there is a pillow precisely arranged behind him which Sherlock cannot recall from earlier.

30 seconds. He’s still running a little slow from the head injury then. Or--

“You must have given me quite the drug, for me to not notice that you came back down,” Sherlock muses. More dangerous than he thought, this man. He must be careful not to become too complacent. 

The man snorts crudely. “Right, Advil, the first choice of serial killers everywhere. You know Sherlock, you’ll never admit it, but you almost never notice if you’re tired enough.”

That familiarity again--using his first name as if they’re brothers or even-- married. Fantastical thought—Watson’s silliness must be transferable by air. Either way, they’re assuredly neither and the man is very close to being unforgivably insulting. 

Sherlock ignores him in favor of continuing his perusal of the wall and the man frowns. “What—what is it?”

“Childish, is it not?” Sherlock muses. “If one were to decorate the wall in such an outlandish fashion, one might, at the very least, pick a more aesthetically pleasing design. Or a patriotic one, if one is so inclined.“

The man follows his gaze and visibly blanches. 

“No,” he says, very firmly. “The smiley face is bad enough. There is no way in hell you’re adding a union flag or whatever your crazy brain thinks counts as interior décor. Particularly not with my gun, Sherlock.“

This conversation is utterly irrelevant, particularly as the immature yellow face is most certainly not HIS creation. However, he cannot resist saying, (a trifle petulantly, if the truth is told), “Surely I could merely use MY revolver, if I was so inclined."

“You?” the man says in amazement. “You—owning your own gun? Over my fucking dead body. Though, come to think of it, the way you use guns, it probably will be.“

 

“I promise you, my good man,“ Sherlock starts, irked by his companion’s self-assuredness. “I am a perfectly adequate shot.”

“Remember the time you almost shot Mrs. Hudson when she came in halfway through one of your sulks?” the man interrupts, with the slightly glazed look of one reliving a treasured memory. “God, do you remember how furious she was?“

Sherlock most assuredly does not, though the name causes him slight pause. 

“Our housekeeper?” he tests. 

“Yes, of course—no, sorry, landlady."

"Both, I presume?"

John laughs, as if Sherlock is being amusing ( though he doesn't understand how a simple statement of fact can be amusing).

"Yeah, well, don't tell her that. Or wait--the time you rubbed your head with the safety off? God, I could have killed you, but it would probably have been a bit redundant, seeing as you nearly managed it yourself.” 

Sherlock wonders what sort of idiot would do such a thing. Perhaps the man whose face he bears is a trifle soft in the head, what with his penchant for childish designs and his inability to use a simple handgun. And his—

“Do I sulk?”

The little man’s face goes a distinctly plummy shade of purple. “Do you--- do you—“ 

Sherlock is genuinely afraid the man will choke. It would almost be a pity if he did, as, despite the rudeness, Sherlock does not particularly dislike his company. Which is a level of affection that few in this world have managed to command from the great detective. 

(Ah yes, perhaps--- this world. Could it be?) 

“I sometimes suspect it’s your default state,” the man says, when he finally regains control of his hacking. But Sherlock is far past that. 

“—in which case, I am simply examining this from the wrong angle of contemplation. A perspective may still be limited in scope if it is merely universal. And your presence does seem to indicate that I might have been off on the wrong track altogether—“

“Er—I think I missed something. The entirety of this conversation, maybe.”

Sherlock swings around to give him an appraising look. “You are Doctor John Watson, are you not?”

The man sighs. “A bit obvious for you, but I reckon you’ve got the general idea.” 

“And who am I?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man says patiently. “Consulting detective and professional arse. Look, Sherlock, it’s about 3am, can we just—“

“However,” Sherlock interrupts decisively. “Say there was another world. Exactly as this one is, save for the most minute of differences. And let us say there was another John Watson there, exactly as you are, but minutely different.”

The man (Watson, he supposes, if they’re so familiar) merely looks resigned. 

“Minutely different, how so?” he asks finally, with the air of one humoring a willful child. But Sherlock is rather too familiar with said attitude to let it bother him. 

“Well, let us imagine, “ he says, picturing HIS Watson in his mind. “That this Watson, for the sake of argument, is---oh, I should say about three inches taller and a good half stone heavier. Certainly more muscular than yourself. My female sources tell me he is very aesthetically pleasing, in a traditional manner, and you yourself are— “

“OKAY.” Watson looks a trifle annoyed, though Sherlock cannot think why he would be. “Got it, yeah. Anything else? More intelligent too? No gimpy leg? Half-Time Lord?”

“Possibly the first, though I lack the data necessary to make a proper judgment. Though I'd wager that his war wound is a trifle more embarrassing than your limb- not that he'll admit it, the dear fellow really is so proper," Sherlock says affectionately. Watson is looking at him rather oddly, however, and so he hastily adds. 

“Oh and-- possibly a mustache.”

Watson straightens. “A MUSTACHE?” he thunders, looking extremely appalled. “A bloody—do you know what I’d look like with one of those? Can you even imagine?”

“Unfortunately, I can indeed,” Sherlock says, wincing a little. His Watson has a rather finer, squarer jaw than this fellow and his carefully groomed mustache quite befits his face. THIS Watson on the other hand—Sherlock shudders and promptly deletes the image that insists upon searing itself into his mind. 

“But the point of the matter is different,” he says quickly, “So let us say this Watson truly exists. And let us say he has a Sherlock Holmes as well and that they live in 221B in this precise era. But there are, as we have noted, differences. And perhaps, in other places, there are other Watsons and other Holmes, and they all exist, simultaneously, but not together. Do you follow me?”

“Parallel universes?” Watson says dubiously. “Seems a bit fantastical for you.”

“Well, when one has eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable—“

“Must be the truth, yes, yes,” he finishes. Sherlock stares at him in wide-eyed surprise. 

“Didn’t know you were paying attention when we watched Star Trek,” Watson says cryptically. He smiles, suddenly inexplicably happier. “So the multiverse theory is your new explanation for all crime, is it? Can’t wait to tell Sally about this one—her face will be fucking brilliant.” 

“The multiverse theory?” Sherlock asks, grasping at the one part of this exchange that appears to be relevant. “Tell me.”

Watson furrows his brow as he speaks. “William James, I think—lots of universes all existing at the same time—basically what you just said. Except, you know, you’re over a century late on this one genius. That was what—1890s maybe?”

Sherlock stares at him and Watson apparently misinterprets the stare, for he turns a dusky shade of red. “It just interests me, is all,” he mumbles. “You know—all a bit Doctor Who, probably, but it IS kind of interesting, don’t you think?” He looks up expectantly. 

“1888,” Sherlock says dazedly, suddenly understanding. “It was 1888.”

Watson frowns. “You mean James? I thought the theory was a bit later,” is all he says. He shakes his head. “Of course, you probably know better. Well, I can’t sleep now—cuppa tea?”

“Wait,” Sherlock says, willing himself to be calm. “Wait—er—sir. What year is this?”

Watson looks a bit cross. “Oh come now,” he says. “Don’t tell me you’ve deleted that as well.”

“I am perfectly serious—“

He is treated to a perfunctory eye roll, curtsey of the rudest man he has ever managed to meet. 

“2013, you mad man,” he says, not even bothering to hide his exasperation. “And don’t go forgetting it—it’s a bit more important than the entire Earth revolving around the sun part.”

Sherlock is not amused to find that the entirety of that sentence is perfect gibberish to him. 

.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pulling a decent chunk of this straight from my head, so feel free to ask/add/crit references in the comments. Actually, feel very, very free to leave a comment. Of any sort.  
> .....
> 
> "An ancestor of mine maintained that if you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be the truth." (Spock in Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country)
> 
> "Holmes, in one of his queer humors, would sit in an arm-chair with his hair-trigger and a hundred Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with a patriotic V. R." (Watson, The Musgrave Ritual) 
> 
> \-- EDIT: yes, Mrs. Hudson is both landlady AND their housekeeper in canon. 
> 
> \--There are some people that hold that Watson continually misplaced his war wound because he lied about it to begin with. Why? It was in an embarrassing place, of course. Like his arse. 
> 
> \--William James is one of the fathers of the multiverse theory, a word which was coined by him in the mid 1890s. Assuming Holmes is totally capable of coming up with this before him, given his situation.
> 
> \--Descriptions of Holmes and Watson stolen mostly from Baring-Gould and Sidney Paget. 
> 
> If you got through all that, here, have some Martin Freeman with a mustache: 
> 
> http://elementarysherlock.tumblr.com/post/47468870439/martin-freeman-has-an-unlimited-well-of
> 
> There are other, more relevant pictures, but this is more entertaining.


	3. Chapter 3

.............  
 _My dear John,_

_I don't know why you insist upon choosing ridiculously obscure passwords. It merely wastes my time, for I will crack them eventually and you do know that. So I have to assume you choose them only for your own amusement. Inefficient and rather childish of you._

_I have told you this before, but it occurs to me that you might be angry if I don't leave you a reminder. You are growing worryingly forgetful- because you were shopping is hardly an adequate excuse. So: I am conducting an experiment in the nature of parallel verses. If all goes well, I will be transported to another space and time. My body will likely be unconscious for a short period._

_Do not be alarmed._

_And don't stay up._

_~~Sincerely~~ yours,_

_Sherlock_  
..........

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For everyone who was worried about Sherlock--
> 
> Yeah, this is his fault. I know, shocking. He'll show up eventually, promise. 
> 
> And as to what he's doing in Victorian England-- well, being in his mind right now would be spoilers, so, er-- Sequel?


	4. Chapter 4

John is snoring, a curiously heavy noise that permeates the air and renders sleep impossible. Though that is possibly just petulance on his part, because Sherlock often finds sleep to be impossible and currently, the promise of that queer typewriter is keeping him very much awake. He waits until he deems it sufficiently safe and then makes his move. If this is indeed John Watson, then this will take him no more than 23 tries at best.  


It takes him four.  


The screen flickers to life, revealing a blank, white expanse and typewritten words. A brief note.  


Humph.  


Well, that hardly seems fair. He might have considered a warning.  


There's an ominous movement from the chair and Sherlock hurriedly presses a few keys, until the screen goes gratifyingly blank.He looks over thoughtfully at the man on snoring peacefully in the armchair.  


John, then.  


John it is.  
..........

Watson-- no, John-- leaves early the next morning for his practice, though not before carefully feeling Sherlock’s forehead. His hand is warm and gentle (and lingers in much the way that Watson’s does, though it does seem rather churlish to mention it). It is, in it's own queer way, comforting. If he should close his eyes, he might not even notice the difference, despite the oddness of John's character.  


Though, in the interest of being fair to the little man, it must be noted that, so far, he has proved himself to be at least adequate company. Nor is he entirely unlike his own dear friend in terms of temperament. His sardonic sense of humor is comparable to Watson’s, his easy admiration almost as gratifying and his ability to deduce just as flatly useless. And, despite the sharpness of his manner, his hand is just as caring as it strokes back Sherlock’s hair.  


“You sure you’re okay?” he asks. “Headache? Nausea? Anything like that?”  


“I am perfectly fine.” ‘Save for the fact that I am currently trapped in your flatmate’s body and have a decided extraterrestrial touch to my features’ does not seem like quite the thing to say, somehow.

“Right then---“ John hesitates and then, to Sherlock’s intense surprise, drops a hasty kiss onto his forehead. This is a ritual, from what he gathers of John’s easy demeanor.

“In that case,” he says, squeezing Sherlock’s hand. “Later, alright love? And throw out the stuff in the fridge if you get a chance, it’s starting to smell something awful in the kitchen.”  
Sherlock carefully reclaims his hand, before nodding as if this makes perfect sense to him. He watches John leave with narrowed eyes.

Strange man indeed.  
………………  
Sherlock presumes, going by etymology, that the fridge can only refer to the indoor icebox that sits in one corner of the little kitchen. It appears that John cooked his own breakfast, which does rather make Sherlock wonder what it is, precisely, that this Mrs. Hudson DOES.

The ‘fridge’ turns out to be filled with an intriguingly morbid array of human body parts, in varying states of decomposition. And he has every intention of keeping his promise to John, lest the man realize something is wrong. But then there is a particularly curious tint to one of the phalanges. And he has never had quite such a wealth of relatively fresh body parts at his disposal, so it seems such a shame to waste the opportunity…

He can, he decides, concentrate on honoring John’s wishes in an hour or so. After all, surely John will be gone until early afternoon, at the very least. He has plenty of time.  
……………

There are many exciting things in the kitchen, as it turns out. The stove lights at the turn of a dial and the tap appears to run both hot and cold water. He discovers this after he burns his hand under one of the knobs. He immediately tests it again on his wrist, just to confirm and is fascinated by the slight red burn.

And then it occurs to him that if the water is hot, then there must be something which is heating it. It is obviously his duty to find out what it is and from whence it comes.  
……  
A thorough investigation of the underside of the sink provides no answers. Possibly there is a boiler at the end of the pipe, though, to his frustration, he does not know how he would go about finding the said pipe. He is debating cracking through the back of the sink, when there is a slight ‘ping’ from the corner.

A small device is flashing in the corner. ‘Message from John Watson’, reads the line of script at the top. He clenches it tightly in his fist and peers at the tiny screen, barely able to contain his excitement. But what is it? What purpose does it serve? Is it like the typewriter- a small device that stores its words?

But pressing various buttons merely yields a request for yet another passcode. Sherlock gives it up as an unreasonably difficult job right there—if the clever little device is his other self’s (which he doesn’t doubt it is, judging by the nicked surface and well-worn keyboard), then the password will be entirely random and impossible to crack.

………..

He wouldn’t be Sherlock Holmes if he didn’t try anyways and waste a good hour on the process.  
………….

The odd little device is infuriating, with it’s continual noises. He scowls darkly at it from where he is buried in John’s medical journals (medicine in this century is fascinatingly complex). Finally, he tosses it under the cushions and, taking hold of the first crime-related book he sees, curls up in the more comfortable looking armchair to read.

This little Belgian really is a most absurd fellow. Sherlock rapidly accelerates from mild annoyance at the detective’s arrogance, to outright indignation. These idiot copycat types, with their false airs and despicable laziness. He deposits the book carefully into fireplace.

Little grey cells indeed. 

…………………

Later, when he wanders into the kitchen to check the process of the blue-tinted phalange, a particularly curious looking appliance in the corner catches his attention. When he presses its various buttons, it appears to generate a field of light and heat within its chambers.

There must be something around here that he can test it on, he thinks.

There's a muffled ping from the living room.  
…………..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Belgian detective in the book is Hercule Poirot, of the Agatha Christie mysteries. Based vaguely off of Sherlock Holmes, except that he firmly believes that others can do the fact-collecting and that he can solve the case comfortably from his armchair, using only his 'little grey cells.' Here's a conversation with Hastings (his 'Watson' if you will):
> 
> ""But surely the study of fingerprints and footprints, cigarette ash, different kinds of mud and other clues that compromise the minute observation of details-- all of these are of vital importance?"
> 
> "But certainly. I have never said otherwise. The trained observer, the expert, without a doubt he is useful. But the others, the Hercule Poirots, they are above the experts!""
> 
> \-- Murder on the Links, by Agatha Christie
> 
> Basically, Sherlock ridiculed Dupin. And then Poirot ridiculed Holmes. Eh bien.


	5. Chapter 5

“The fuck did you DO?” 

John Watson is fairly upset when he appears in the doorway to find his kitchen half in ruins. He’s quite terrifying like this, if one is being completely honest. Sherlock surveys the scene of destruction. 

“Ah, John, wonderful to see you as well,” he says easily. “ I suppose it is only understandable that my slight—over-exuberance—in dealing with the heating box—would be trying, considering the incredibly busy day you’ve had at work.”

John spends a quick moment in obvious indecision over which part of that statement he wants to attack first. Sherlock takes pity on him and says matter-of-factly, “It’s the state of your boots, of course.”

That does not seem to ease John’s suffering. He looks, if anything, even more bewildered. 

“Take it you’re alright then?” he asks finally. 

“Yes, I’m quite fine—“

“Good, that’s good isn’t it?” John bites his lip as he looks at the bubbling grey heap on the counter. It’s still smoking faintly from where the fire department had to put it out. A rather tedious exercise for something that would clearly have done just as well with a bucket of water, but Sherlock has long since become resigned to the stupidity of the general populace. Somethings never change. 

“So,” John says and his voice is suspiciously casual. He rubs his chin and looks at the ceiling as if it is utterly fascinating. “I talked to one of the firefighter’s on his way out—“

“Yes?”

“Did you—did you really microwave a mobile?” Sherlock is unfamiliar with the terminology, but it is probably better to agree in this situation.

“I suppose one might say that,” he says carefully. John nods, still absorbed in the ceiling, which, to the best of Sherlock’s knowledge, is just as uninteresting as it was 30 seconds ago.

“Right, right—um, can I ask why?”

He decides to go for half the truth. “The noise it was making was perfectly infuriating.”

“Of course it was.” John nods agreeably and Sherlock cannot tolerate anymore.

“Is there something up there?” he demands. “I confess, the ceiling does not seem as though it should occupy quite so much of your interest, but perhaps—“

“Ye—“ John bites his lips again and makes the mistake of looking directly at Sherlock. For a second, Sherlock’s truly afraid he might choke, as his face spasms. But then an queer strangled sounds escapes from between his lips. It escalates to the point of concern, until Sherlock realizes that he's-- laughing. No, nothing so dignified.

That is a giggle. 

“Only you,” he gasps. “Couldn’t just turn the damn thing off— You had to fucking MICROWAVE it. Oh—“ He’s bent almost in double by this point and Sherlock feels something that feels suspiciously like a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“It is indeed possible I miscalculated slightly,” he admits. 

“Miscalculated,” John agrees. He takes a deep breath and wipes tears of mirth from his eyes, before looking ruefully up at Sherlock. 

“So, seriously though,” he begins. “The boots? Tell me.” 

Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back and shakes his head. “You’re limping a little, so I presume you’ve been on your feet for a very long time, as I do not believe you normally limp. Your shoes are not the problem, they’re used and worn. You might have simply taken a longer route to walk home, but it has been muddy since morning and they are by no means dirty. So you used a cab both ways, which I doubt you would do unless you were very busy indeed.” 

“Fantastic!” 

“Elementary,” Sherlock says dismissively, though he can feel himself flush a trifle. “I know your habits.” But he doesn’t, he realizes suddenly. He merely assumed them based on what he knows of Watson’s habits and he was proven right. 

John steps forwards again and Sherlock backs up into the kitchen counter, slightly thrown off by his sudden proximity. “Not elementary,” John insists, his hands mere centimeters away from Sherlock’s chest. “You’re—you’re brilliant, you know that.” 

Sherlock inhales sharply and nods. “Thank you,” he says tightly. “I—well. So I’ve been told.” He’s rather annoyed to discover that he can feel his ears flushing. 

John glances at him curiously. “And vain as a girl in a party frock about it,” he says, grinning at the sight of the crimson blush. But his eyes are suspiciously tender. He raises one hand to Sherlock cheek and Sherlock decides that that is quite enough for the moment, thank you very much. He ducks out from under John’s arm. 

“We should ask Mrs. Hudson to begin cleaning,” he says brusquely. 

He doesn’t think he’s imagining the disappointment on John’s face. “Oh right—well,” he chuckles softly once more. “Good luck with that one, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be on that of her beauty"-- Watson, A Study in Scarlet.
> 
>  
> 
> " "I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Watson," said he. "When your round is a short one you walk, and when it is a long one you use a hansom. As I perceive that your boots, although used, are by no means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are at present busy enough to justify the hansom."
> 
> "Excellent!" I cried.
> 
> "Elementary," said he. "  
> \-- Watson and Holmes, The Adventure of the Crooked Man.


	6. Chapter 6

Mrs. Hudson proves to be disquietingly unhelpful. She hands Sherlock a broom and feels the need to inform him that she is “Not his housekeeper". Sherlock cannot help but point out that she most definitely is his _landlady_ , even if she HAS decided to crop her hair and show off her calves in a most unseemly fashion. She has also, apparently, decided to develop some strength of character in the past century or so, because she responds quite shockingly, by grasping him by the ear and tossing him out like an errant schoolboy. 

_Honestly, Sherlock, you get ruder every day-- And don't make that lovely man of yours clean it, he cleaned it the last time too and oh dear, what do you mean the broom won't work? Sherlock? Sherlock, don't you dare run away from me, **you come back here young man **-****_

“How’d it go?” John prompts when Sherlock makes it back, though there is little doubt that he’s heard the little exchange downstairs. That lovely man of his indeed-- the despicable creature is grinning.

“Absolutely terrifying woman,” Sherlock mutters resentfully. “I am of the opinion that landladies ought to refrain from developing personalities—it merely makes things unnecessarily complicated.” 

“Yeah, well, don’t let her hear you say that,” John says. “And consider being nicer to her, you tosser—you know, she’s like a mother to you.”

He wishes John would refrain from using that phrase, because no, Sherlock most emphatically does NOT know.

“Anyways,” John continues, with a sigh. “You can do it later—Lestrade called. Says you’re needed down at the Yard.” 

Well, that, at least, is something. 

…..

The Yard has changed and so has London. His city, which he once knew like the back of his hand, is a mind-numbing, chaotic mess of sensation and color, taste and sound. He nearly doesn’t blame this Sherlock for being an idiot—he himself has a pounding headache by the time they make it to the Yard (which is located in an entirely different building and feels the need to remind Sherlock that it is, in fact, ‘New’). 

Everything is new, or so it seems until Sherlock catches sight of a tall. grey-haired man approaching him. He is no longer either sallow nor particularly rat-faced, but there is no mistaking the air of disgruntled resignation. 

“Well, if it isn’t the world’s first consulting detective,” he says, by way of greeting. 

“’Only’ perhaps, ‘first’ no,” Sherlock murmurs, aggrieved at the presumption.

“I suppose technically Poirot would count as the first,” John says brightly. “Fictional and all, but still counts right?””

Sherlock does not care to dignify that with an answer, though Lestrade is looking a trifle too amused for his own good. 

“Right,” he says, leading them over to the building. “There’s this young woman here. Says she has a treasure map from India or something. Thought she was crazy, mind you, but she seems fairly sane and I thought it just might be eccentric enough to—“

Sherlock freezes. “And is her name Mary?”

“No."

"Yes," John says at the same time. Lestrade whirls on him and he sighs. "Not worth it, is it? He's like that, he'll figure it out." 

"Yeah, well, you could've made that more convincing --oye, Sherlock, where are you going?”

“Home,” Sherlock throws over his shoulder. “Urgent, cannot be helped. Come along, John.”

“Wha—Sherlock. Wait—“ John catches up to him. “What was that?” he demands, puffing as he tries to match Sherlock’s long strides. “Look, you should at least talk to her.”

“We will not be taking this case, John,” Sherlock says with certainty. He knows, objectively, that this isn’t justified. This isn’t his John and this Sherlock might be quite alright with the events that are to unfold. 

Somehow, Sherlock doubts it. Though it’s not as if he’d doing him a favor, he convinces himself. It is merely that he has already solved this case and does not care to do so again.

“Sherlock,” John huffs in frustration. “I know it's been rough, but she didn't mean-- Hey, listen to me." John grabs the back of his coat and he debates shrugging it off and continuing. 

"You're acting strange again. What's wrong?" 

Sherlock spins on his heel before he can think better of it. Of course, it’s logical—What’s wrong? What’s wrong is that the case will be boring now and Watson is being stupid and slow. Sherlock opens his mouth planning an abrasive run down of the aforementioned issues. 

What comes out, instead, to his everlasting surprise, is: 

“MARY!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary Morstan had a certain 'curious paper' in the Sign of Four, which proved to be a treasure map leading to the Agra Treasure.


	7. Chapter 7

This loose century must be playing havoc with his self-control. This is not his Watson—it is John, John who is very much not Watson at all. And yet, he feels a grim sort of satisfaction at the bewilderment crossing his face. 

He deserves to feel bewildered. The romantic fool is seconds away from falling hopelessly in love with a woman he has just met. One in an endless parade of them, to be sure, for Watson certainly has a gift, but Mary is—was--- will be- the only one intelligent enough to realize what she has and to snap it up. 

Opportunistic, that woman. Granted, he’s still a little bitter, for all that Watson’s little story managed to wash over his disdain in broad, infatuation-hued brushstrokes. The Sign of Four indeed. The entire thing read like a tawdry romance novel. 

“Mary?” John asks, interrupting his silent fuming. 

“Yes, Mary,” Sherlock confirms snappishly. “Tedious, is it not?” 

John’s frown deepens. “Must you call her that? Don’t know why you insist on being such a colossal dick to her all the time.”

If he ever meets this other Sherlock, congratulations are indeed in order. He himself was an utter fool to be shocked at the news. But still, John’s admonishment raises another intriguing question.

“We’ve met?” The timeline is a bit different here then. He hastily files that away for later consideration, because John is turning a frankly alarming shade of red. 

“Oh come on, Sherlock! You’re so damn childish sometimes. And she doesn’t deserve that, you know, she’s perfectly sweet.” 

“Oh, indubitably,” Sherlock agrees, more than a trifle sourly. “Quite intelligent too. Charming. Gracious. And I believe pretty, if one is to believe your opinion on the matter. Not that I would dare doubt you----the female form is rather your specialty, is it not? ”

The expression on John’s face is quite familiar. It indicates that he has reached the level of frustration where Sherlock ought to remain firmly out of arm’s reach. Watson, for all his that he portrays himself as having saint like amounts of patience on paper, actually has a devil of a right hook. 

With Sherlock a good meter away, John is forced to settle with pinching the bridge of his nose and rolling his eyes. “Fine. Okay. You’re going to have to go through that one again.” 

“It clouds your better judgment whenever you meet such ladies,” Sherlock says disdainfully. Which, if not precisely the point at the moment, is at least true enough in his world. And he suspects John Watson is incapable of changing THAT much. 

“Oh my god, Sherlock, you’re not seriously--?”

“Her feminine wiles will likely lead you straight to a nice countryside house. Perhaps you’ll take in some horrid beast as well-- like a dog. Or a child.”

He conveniently chooses to forget that he is fond of dogs, children AND the countryside and luckily, this John does not bother to contradict him. 

“Yes, yes, I know-- London is the greatest city in the world and you can't fathom why anyone would be upset over the death of either their pet or their child. But that's entirely besides the point and you know it. We’re going back there and you’ll behave yourself, you lousy git.” 

“My dearest John—you are not thinking this through rationally. No doubt your judgment is already impaired.“

“I think my judgment will survive, Sherlock. Though frankly, I can’t say the same about my sanity. 

………

“I brought him back,” John says grimly, as they enter a small, dingy office. He has Sherlock firmly by the hand, which doesn’t bother him overmuch—It's a bit familiar, but Watson has developed a habit of dragging him about by his elbow of late. Or at least, he revises, whenever he’s about, which is not often these days. 

“No thanks to you lot,” John adds to the room at large. “Treasure map, really? That’s about Indiana-Jones level of plausible. Which means not at all, mind. ” 

“I thought it was a good idea,” says a high female voice indignantly. Sherlock coolly appraises the owner of it, who is perched on a seat at the desk. 

Slim and neat, with large brown eyes, reddish hair, and a decidedly lost look about her. Nervous disposition, judging by her nails and bottom lip. Watso— _John_ , appreciates the type. He’s of a nurturing bent, when the fit takes him, though one would think that Sherlock accrues enough injury to keep the man in permanently good spirits.

“Miss Mary,” Sherlock says politely. To his utter horror, she looks as if she might cry.

“Mary?” Lestrade asks with a bemused look. “You know I still don't understand-- that's not her name, Sherlock.“

“But it is don’t you see?” John interjects. “He won’t call her anything else but her full name. Hasn’t for the past six months.”

“But why—“

“Oh, it’s his way of reminding her he’s still mad at her. You know, being a condescending dick.” John throws a glare at Sherlock, which seems blatantly unfair. 

And then the woman starts talking. Though talking is a kind word— nervous blabbering might be closer. 

“Oh, you’re not still—come on, Sherlock, you knew I had to,” she starts. “I— John was heartbroken.” 

“Oye, come now,” John protests. “Isn’t that a bit melodramatic?” 

Lestrade coughs discretely. “Nope, wouldn’t say so mate, I was distinctly worried.” 

“Seeing as there is no case,” Sherlock cuts in impatiently. “Perhaps I might have the pleasure of knowing why you called me out to this desolate dungeon?”

“It’s not so bad as all that,” Lestrade says indignantly. Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him and he sighs. “Oh alright, the station could use some improvements—but we’re getting a new one in a few years—“

"Of course you are, you barely seem to pause for a man to adjust to the changes before you move again--"

"That last move was in 1890, you sod, what are you talking about--"

“Enough!” John barks. “Sit,’ he adds. Sherlock hovers uncertainly. 

“SIT.” 

He drops into the chair next to Mary’s, utterly discomfited by the way his legs appear to have crumpled on command. John nods. “Good,” he says, as if Sherlock is a particularly disobedient pup that he's just about managed to get house-trained.. 

“Now, Sherlock, Greg and I were talking—“

“Greg? Who is Greg?” 

“Lestrade, you useless arse,” John snaps. “We’ve talked about tha—you know what, never mind. So Greg and I’ve had enough of you being a prat to Molly over here—“

“Is that what she calls herself now?” Sherlock asks. He cranes his neck about to get a better look at her. Well, perhaps, judging by her skirt. She gulps under his scrutiny. 

“Oh shut up, you’re just awful—John, this isn’t going to work,” she squeaks. “He’s determined to hate me.”

John takes a deep breath and looks pleadingly at Lestrade, but the Inspector merely shrugs in response. Helpful as always. 

“So this entire thin pretense was constructed to lure me here, because I have upset this woman. And you wish me to apologize,” Sherlock supplies. Not that he had caught onto it, no matter how thin it was--He still isn’t quite sure why treasure maps are so improbable here, but that does seem to be the general consensus. 

“Well, considering that you flounce off at the mere mention of her, couldn’t be helped,” John says, raising an eyebrow. “And yeah, that would be a good start.” 

“It is quite understandable that you do not desire that there remain--- tension—between your friend and your-- lady friend.. Very well then, Miss Mary,” he says gallantly. “You may consider yourself forgiven.” 

Inexplicably, Mary shrieks. “See—you see what he’s doing? He’s always like that, always. All sarcastic and—and formal.” 

John glares at Sherlock again. “For the last time you git, I’m not—hell, that’s MOLLY and we—never mind. Either you tone down the fucking sarcasm or we’ll be in here all bloody day and frankly, all I want to do is drink a nice cuppa and watch a Bond movie. “

Silence descends, as if it too bows to the command of Captain Watson. 

“It is probable she just has hysteria,” Sherlock offers helpfully, after a beat. “Quite common among the ladies, I hear. Always seemed a rather flighty diagnosis to me, but you ought to look into it John, you are the doctor--” 

“Fuck you. Just—“ John's eyes light up mid-rant. “Greg and I,” he says slowly. “Are going to go get a pint. And—“ he glances at Greg. “We can lock you two in here until you figure this out.” 

Sherlock is momentarily speechless. 

“Sounds good to me mate,” Lestrade says. “I'm off now anyways. I’ll get Sally to keep an eye on them.” 

“Good. Sherlock, I’ll see you in a bit. Molly—“ he nods. “I trust you can handle him.” 

“You cannot leave me alone with her,” Sherlock protests, scandalized. “Why, that would hardly be proper and I don't even believe she's fully in her right mind--“

“GoodBYE, Sherlock,” John says firmly. “Greg, come on—“ 

Greg pauses. And then he leans over Mary’s chair and pecks her on the cheek and it all falls into place. The name. The clothes. Their warm, yet cavalier attitude towards her. Obvious, really. He’s just about to make mention of it, when a warm hand descends on his hair. 

“Behave yourself, alright?” John says, his voice right by Sherlock’s ear. He gives his curls a sharp tug. “I’m serious, Sherlock. And if you’re good, we can have a- hmm. Well, a quiet night in." 

For some reason, he smirks at the idea. Perhaps it truly is laughable. 

“I won’t do any experiments, if you wish,” Sherlock offers. 

“Oh, I know you won’t,” John says cheerfully. “You’ll be much too preoccupied with, er-- bigger and better things." 

“Alright, that’s enough you two, this is still an office," Greg groans. "And come on John, I need that pint, mate.”

The door slams behind them and Sherlock turns to Molly, still slightly flabbergasted. He has a few questions to ask, of course, particularly if he’s going to make a convincing apology. But the most important one, at the moment, is:

"But since when have Lestrade and Watson ever gotten along?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised you Mary and you shall have her-- later. But I always thought that's Molly's name was too amusing to let go. 
> 
> Also-- Watson was married to Mary Morstan around 1888, so he's just been married back in the ACD verse and, depending on which version of events you go by, he had anywhere from one to six wives (I kid not, though I'm personally a fan of three). But most people agree that he was married to Mary for at least 2/3 years and that she died sometime in the hiatus. And no, Holmes doesn't hate her. In fact, he quite likes her.
> 
> He's just confused, give the poor man a break, it'll all be all right, promise.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who've spotted the multiple issues with the entire Mary, John, Watson, Holmes, Sherlock thing going on-- yes, they'll probably be addressed, more or less. I have no extensive angst plans, but a teensy bit might creep in just the same.

Miss Mary—Molly—does not dignify that question with a response, though he certainly think it deserves one. The kindest thing Watson ever had to say about the promising, if slow-witted, DI was a comment on the rodent-like air about his face and, even in Sherlock’s limited deference to social niceties, that is a far cry from a compliment. 

And now they were off to have a drink together in some seedy pub, like bosom friends. Charming. 

A little aggravating. 

“Are you going to say something?” Molly asks him. It is very much a question, devoid of any of the latent belligerence one might expect, given the situation. Strange creature, this Molly, particularly for one of her profession. Still, whatever she is, she is still Mary and here, he is not required to be decorous with her.

“You’re a nurse who also works on the streets for extra pay and you’ve somehow grown entangled with John Watson—am I meant to forgive you?” he asks tartly. 

“I’m not—I’m a mortician, that’s not a nurse, Sherlock,” she starts.

“Ah. I see. You’re a perverse sort of woman indeed.”

“Well, you’re one to talk,” she says indignantly. “You like the corpses, well enough.”

“The precise point is that I do NOT like the corpses,” he snaps. “No one particularly likes corpses, Miss Molly. I am not the law and I keep my own counsel, for it is not my place to judge- but I flatter myself that my endeavors are motivated by justice and knowledge, not morbidity." 

She ponders that for a second.

“No, I’m pretty sure you like the corpses.” 

“I like them for the enigma they present, the knowledge to be gained and then I use that expertise to solve crimes. It is a _science_.” Really, this woman was trying.

“That’s not what—okay. Never mind,” she says, hastily at the expression on his face. “But I had to talk to him ,see?” 

Sherlock utterly fails to see. He ought, he thinks now, to have left Watson at home. Told him to have a nice biscuit and put his feet up and he’d handle the old crone who’d called him in. Because Watson loved a bit of playing hero to a damsel in distress and Sherlock was entirely too aware of it. 

He’d thought it quite brilliant for a time, not having to deal with unnecessary histrionics. And then SHE had decided to cry on Watson’s shoulder and, really, the man had been doomed from the outset. 

“No, I did,” Molly says, somehow responding to his expression rather than his words. “You didn’t see him, Sherlock—he was a mess. He barely got out of the house and he thought it was his fault, you know?” 

If Sherlock never hears another variation of that phrase, it’ll be too soon. 

“No, I _don’t_ know,” he says irately. 

“After you killed yourself, you idiot,” she says and bursts into tears. Tricky thing, hysteria. Unfortunately (or, perhaps, fortunately for his Sherlock) John is far away. And he has reliably been informed that he himself is not a comforting presence. 

"If that is so, I seem to have recovered admirably." 

“Oh I know, you pretended to kill yourself ,” she clarifies, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “and I—I helped you. See? So I was a bit responsible.”

“I must had had a good reason,” he says with utter conviction. She continues to sob and he pats his pocket experimentally, but comes up empty handed. 

“Of course you did, Sherlock—“ she sniffs and he hopes fervently that she does not plan to wipe her nose on her sleeve as well—“You did and I know, John would have died—“

It turns out that none of these pockets, in fact, have handkerchiefs. 

Savages.

“He would have died?” Sherlock asks suddenly, that one phrase freezing in his mind mid-processing. 

“I know, I know, Moriarty made you. It was rather clever of him wasn’t it, threatening you with John? Especially after everything—well, _you know_.” She looks at him significantly. 

Devil take the woman.

But there are more important things to be addressed here.

“Moriarty, Moriarty…” he springs out of his chair and clasps his hands behind his back, feeling a manic energy rush through him as he recognizes the name.

“James Moriarty, Chair of Mathematics?” he asks, stepping closer and practically bouncing on his feet. “Yes, I see it now! Moriarty. Oh, the cunning, perfectly diabolical-yes and then he stepped too far finally, finally, as I knew he must."

"Sherlock? I dont--?"

Sherlock paces, too excited to do more than wave her away. "I’ve felt his malignant presence behind half of the crimes I’ve solved in recent years, but no one would believe me and I began to doubt myself—but Professor Moriarty. Excellent. Brilliant. _Obvious_.” He laughs in sheer delight and then stops at the expression on Molly's face. 

Well, at least she’s stopped crying. She reaches forwards and takes hold of his sleeve.

“Sherlock--? What are you--?”

“Nothing,” he says too quickly, stepping back. He forces himself to sit. “I am not—merely thinking aloud.”

“What were you talking about? With Moriarty—“

“Nonsense,” he offers. “Sheer nonsense.” 

“No, that’s not just—you’re not alright, “ she says suddenly. “You’re not yourself.”

“Ah, well that is, of course, abso—“

“Is it John?” she continues stubbornly. “Did something happen? I thought you seemed a bit stiff with him earlier.”

He’s of the opinion John was entirely too familiar with him earlier, but perhaps- well, he has no idea how their relationship is, here. 

“It is certainly a possibility, I grant you.“

“No, but it’s not that, is it? You’re not sulky, you’re just—different. I can’t put my finger on it—“

Odd that Mary has read him far more thoroughly in ten minutes than John has in days. He doesn’t like it. 

“I hit my head,” he says, suddenly inspired. 

She immediately looks contrite. “Oh, I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know—Not too hard I hope?“ 

“Very hard, “ he says firmly. “Quite so.” 

“Is it better now?”

“No,” he says, with a theatrical sigh. “I fear it has left a deep and long-standing alteration to my personality. It might be days before it clears up—or weeks.” Good God, he hopes not, but best be careful. Though if he ever meets the other Sherlock, he's going to have a firm word or two with the man- A fist fight wouldn't be fair, not with the clear signs of negligence on this body. 

Now Molly merely looks confused. “Is that a thing that happens? When you hit your head, I mean?”

“Most certainly,” he assures her. “I see it all the time. Why John was just saying—“

He is about to spin a convincing lie for what John was saying when the door slides open and a dark-skinned woman with wild hair opens the door. ‘

“You two alright?” she asks. But she is clearly addressing only Molly. “Freak behaving himself?”

“N-no, he’s fine—“ Molly stutters. 

“You’re a police officer,” he surmises, after the initial surprise.

She crosses her hands belligerently across her chest. “Problem, freak?”

“Not at all. You likely do a better job than Lestrade, going by wear on your right cuff and the current state of your hair. Though what on earth is the matter with your knees, woman? Did you try cleaning with trousers on?” 

“Go to hell,” she tells him pleasantly. “And tell me if you need anything,” she adds to Molly. 

He frowns as the door slams behind her. 

“Unpleasant lady.”

“Not like you’re any nicer to her though,” Molly pipes up. “You’re bloody awful to everyone, is what.”

“Am I? I should imagine I am.”

“Oh yes. All cold and nasty and—“ To his horror, she looks like she might cry again. 

“My dear woman, what could I possibly have done to upset you now?” he asks, mildly horrified. Where was Watson when you needed him? 

“Can’t you just—let it go? I know it meant you had to come out of hiding, but John was going to—he had his gun, Sherlock and I was afraid—“

His mouth is suddenly unacceptably dry. “He wouldn’t have.”

“But he might have,” Molly insists. “He thought he was responsible for your death because you told him you were committing suicide and—he might have. It’s not like he had anyone else, it was just you, wasn’t it? You two were—are—everything to each other and then he couldn’t save you—And that’s all he does. Save you, I mean.“

“He has you though, does he not?” he asks, suddenly, despite himself, wishing for an affirmative. “If something should happen to me, well—I understand your services are not quite—“

“My services?” she asks blankly. “What services?”

“Oh come now, the skirt, the easy kisses, the name, oh the NAME—Molly. Tediously obvious.”

“What’s wrong with it?” she asks suspiciously. “I like Molly.”

“Yes, you would. But it does speak volumes about your status—Oh.” It takes him a stupidly long time to realize it, but he does. Sentiment, blinding him to the obvious.

“You’re not Mary Morstan,” he says flatly.

“Sherlock--- you didn’t—you didn’t forget my last name?”

“Perhaps. What is it? And would I do that?” 

“Yes, you would,” she says suspiciously. “You did, didn’t you? You—“

“I believe it is well past time for us to take leave of each other,” he says, quite honestly. “You must return to—whatever nature of work it is that you do—and I—“

“I don’t know why you’re being so weird about my job all of a sudden, it’s only benefited you—“

“Has it?” he asks in alarm. He pauses in the middle of pulling on his (the other Sherlock’s) gloves. “Information, I suppose. It could only be information.” He often uses streetwalkers for the purpose and yet--He cannot be sure, not here, and the thought is disquieting. He eyes Molly's trim, exposed form and is relieved to find not a hint of attraction, despite the display.

"I must be leaving," he says grimly. 

“And you like bodies, so stop denying—“ the wretched woman continues, oblivious to his horror. 

That is quite enough of that ineffable twaddle. 

“Good-DAY, madam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I am not the law, but I represent justice so far as my feeble powers go." Sherlock Holmes, Three Gables. . Vastly modified by me, because I don't talk about 'The Adventure of the Three Gables', it makes me want to bury my head in a hole. 
> 
> "The action is morally justifiable, though technically criminal"-- Sherlock Holmes, Milverton
> 
> "For years past I have continually been conscious of some power behind the malefactor..and at last the time came when I seized my thread and followed it, until it led me, after a thousand cunning windings, to ex-Professor Moriarty of mathematical celebrity.'-- Sherlock Holmes, The Final Problem
> 
> Yes, Holmes thinks Molly is a prostitute. 'Molly' is a bit of a lower class name in his period and I'd imagine he finds her skirts, easy kisses and comfort at being alone in his presence to be not quite that of a proper lady.
> 
> IRRELEVANT RAMBLING WARNING (inspired by a comment I got on Sally):
> 
> I don't believe that Holmes was misogynistic or racist- or, at the very least, he was far better than most of his era. See 'The Yellow Face' and 'The 5 Orange Pips' against the racism charge and remember that I don't talk about the 'Three Gables'-- some people go so far as to say that wasn't even written by Doyle, but, at the very least, it a startling contradiction of the Holmes we see in other tales. As for misogyny: He distrusted women and was prey to many of the stereotypes labeling them as emotional and irrational. Yet his treatment of Adler, Hudson, Morstan, Hunter and others suggest that he was more than willing to see past that if they proved themselves sensible. Which, really, is how he felt about ALL of humanity. You can totally disagree with me here as far as canon goes and yeah, I admit that maybe I have my head in the sand, because Holmes is one of my childhood heroes.
> 
> But, for the moment, I'm writing this. And MY Holmes is surely dated, old-fashioned and often patronizing in his views but he's not a bigot. Because I said so, that's why. <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just got back from vacation- and I thought I'd have time to write but A) I was wrong and B) I forgot my laptop. Yeah, I'm very good at life, don't mention it. Also, this took a distinct turn into minor angst and I tried not to let it, but we'll try to clear it up soon.

Sherlock has not been particularly concerned with returning to his own era so far, but when he comes back to 221B for a bit of research he realizes, abruptly, that there is no possible way that he can live out the rest of his days here. 

Of course, he always knew that the modern world left much to be desired in terms of elegance and manners, but he quite found the extensive scientific progress and the indulgence of rudeness to be worth the trade. 

(Though why the thought came accompanied with a rather forlorn image of Watson, sitting all alone in his soft armchair, was anyone’s guess. But it stood to reason that if he was here, then the other Sherlock was there. And if his Watson proved to be but half as dense as the creature called John, then there was the distinct possibility that he’d never even notice the switch. And again, there was a stab of pain, which was so irrational that Sherlock had refused to even acknowledge its existence). 

But he was wrong, it seems. For 30 minutes of attempted research quickly convinces Sherlock that, whatever his initial impressions, THIS Sherlock is nothing like him. Sherlock freely admits that he is a hoarder of information, particularly of the type that relates to his work. His library is vast, if esoteric, and it enables him to have all the information he desires at his fingertips. 

But here are perhaps fifteen books altogether in this version of 221B and the vast majority are of a frivolous nature, rather akin to Watson’s silly yellow-backs. 

(John’s no doubt. Never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes doesn’t give the benefit of doubt and besides, the copious tea stains are rather telling) 

No, he cannot survive here. Home it is. Though how he’s meant to get back with neither any information, nor tobacco to smoke out a solution is indeed a bit of a quandry.  
……….

“The hell are you doing now?” John asks, when he comes in to discover the flat in utter shambles. “Case, is it?” 

Sherlock acknowledges him with a curt nod, one that he doesn’t see, because the great detective is currently buried under a pile of decrepit newspapers. He found a few shoved into a bookshelf as lining and a few more fermenting under the couch (along with other things, also fermenting, that he’s intent upon returning to later). 

“John, what is it that one does for information about here?”

“Sorry? Thought you stored all that in your mind palace?”

“It’s an attic,” he says automatically. 

“Downsized, have we?” 

Infuriating little man.

“Surely there must be a way to access more detailed historical records? You seem to be quite remiss with your newspaper collection.“

John avoids his eyes. Interesting. 

“Yeah, well, I found a stack of them under your bed a bit ago-- threw them out.” 

“Why?” Sherlock asks, chagrined. “Why on earth would you destroy such a valuable resource?“

“Well, you weren’t exactly there to defend it, were you?” John snaps. “And Jesus, Sherlock, I could have had a happy little bonfire with the newspapers last year, what with the stuff they were printing. Could’ve thrown the reporters in too, come to think of it.“

“Seems unnecessarily violent,” Sherlock remarks, prodding subtly. Perhaps too subtly, for John doesn’t even respond. 

“Well, you could just Google it,” he says, as if it’s the most rational thing in the world (as opposed to the absolute gibberish it sounds like).

“I don’t understand—oh, really, John, this is not the time.” 

For John’s pointing at the queer, dark mirror/typewriter that Sherlock had used his first day and Sherlock can only presume that he is one more indulging his sardonic sense of humor

“Go on, use mine. You will anyways.” 

“This is no time for facetiousness,” he says impatiently. He picks up his legs and tucks them under the scoop of his too-soft chin, scowling. John groans.

“Fine, suit yourself,” he says, clearly exasperated. “I’m going for a walk.”

Sherlock has already come to realize that this John Watson has quite the penchant for walks.  
........

It is Mrs. Hudson who proves to be (finally, does the lady do anything of import?) of some service. She comes up with a plate of fresh biscuits and sighs when she finds him stretched out over the armchair, his feet dangling off of one arm. 

“You already ruined the couch, dear, must you start on the armchairs too?”

“Newspapers,” he tells her shortly. “I require newspapers.”

“Sherlock,” she cries in dismay, her hands going straight to her hips. “What did you spill this time?”

“Nothing that I am aware of and I am aware of at least the past 36 hours, though I cannot speak for anything before. I require them for erudition purposes—“

“Oh,” she says. She doesn’t look convinced. “Well, you can have the ones I’ve got, if you like—I think I’ve kept most of them. Memories, you know, when you get old like me. They’re not in any order, mind, but—“

He’s out of his chair and half way down the stairs before she can so much as finish her sentence and he can hear her tutting behind him.

Really, the women of this era are insufferable. 

……………

He soon puts it together. 

A sordid tale, that of him (the other Sherlock, of course not him) and Moriarty and a trumped up scandal that he sees through in seconds, for it’s not really very clever at all. There is much missing from the story however—all the pertinent details, left out. For frustratingly, now that he has an account fully free from Watson’s peculiar brand of romanticizing, he misses it. 

Where was John? 

The newspapers say very little--Confirmed bachelor and a case involving a German painting. Then later, a mention about fighting for Sherlock’s good name (how quaint and how very like Watson, to believe such a thing made a difference) and a scribble about a girlfriend. And then---nothing. He’s just debating a brief (and highly unethical) (but completely justified) scramble through John’s rooms when there’s the sound of footsteps outside their door. 

Well. Might as well ask the man himself then.

…………….

“Mary MORSTAN?” John’s expression is flatly incredulous. “Why would you even bring that one up—that was. Well. Ages ago. Back when you—right.“

“You loved her,” Sherlock feels the need to point out. “Or you said you did and wandered about spouting all sorts of sentimental nonsense about her, which I gather is considered to be one and the same in the eyes of the mindless masses.”

“Right, yeah, thanks for the reminder.”

“Why? Does it bother you?” Interesting. And unexpected. His own Watson is sickeningly besotted at the moment. 

“Yes it bothers me—because then she cheated on me with that other bloke, remember? It’s a bit of a sore subject, alright?” John snaps. 

Intriguing. Very intriguing. 

“Did she indeed? Did I tell you that?”

“No, but it became kind of obvious after she called me James for the fifth time,” John admits. He blows out a frustrated breath and takes in Sherlock’s shell-shocked expression.

“Of course,” he mutters. “I presumed it was one of his many errors, but—“

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re thinking about in that over-worked brain of yours,” John starts. “But I guarantee it’s wrong. Whatever happened with Mary—It turned out all right.”

“Did it?” Sherlock asks. He can’t keep a note of bitterness out of his voice. Perhaps they’re back together, though he’s found no hint of it. Still, John is likely stepping out with someone—the ironed shirts and love-sick grins are all too familiar. Watson wears his heart on his sleeve and it bleeds through his confounded frock coat nearly every day. 

Tedious. And lonesome.

“You daft idiot—of course it did,” John says, stepping towards him. His face is worn, but content and there is something so very familiar about the soft lines and caring expression. 

But still, this is not his Watson, he realizes. It hardly matters what he says here, to this man. He can be honest and perhaps it will be enough to simply gauge his reaction. And then—then Sherlock can stop inventing various ways this scenario would end, if he dared to voice his thoughts. 

He can finally have his answer and Watson need never know, which is by far the most preferable state of affairs. 

“It was—quiet—without you,” he says carefully. John places a hand on his shoulder, simply listening and it is as if a dam breaks. 

“I thought I would go mad perhaps,” he says rapidly. He braces himself on the counter behind him, knuckles clenching. “My mind, racing like an engine, gnawing on nothing, and nothing to fill it, not one distraction. And then the solution—there is only so much one can take, it seems, and even it does not help, though it helps after a fashion. And so I could not give it up and you were not there to stop me, so what did it matter?”

“Sherlock—“ John’s eyes are wide. “I didn’t realize—you didn’t—“

Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps this Sherlock does not. He’s found no needles, no evidence of the same and yet—he knows. Easy. Too, too, triflingly easy to tell, the marks that such abuse leaves on a body. 

John lunges directly for his shirt collar (astute, this man) and they waste a few precious minutes tussling in the kitchen. But Sherlock's not so strong as he was and this John is not yet soft from married life. (Oh very well, his Watson is not really 'soft' either. But he takes a certain glee from the expansion of his waistline. He never said he was a _good_ man.) 

John however, is not only quite adept at fielding blows, he's also short enough to be a liability. He ducks under Sherlock's arm and rips at the back of his shirt. And there they are, the little track marks that are scarred over in this time and so fresh in his own. He hides them under his collar, back home, and so he realized very quickly the significance of this Sherlock's fine locks and soft scarf. 

John is terrifyingly silent. One hand curls around Sherlock's wrist, hard enough to bruise.

Sherlock sighs.

“You were always perfectly tedious about the narcotics.”

“You’re clean now though--these are old—“ John says it as if he doesn’t quite believe the evidence of his own eyes.

“Yes, yes, calm yourself,” Sherlock snaps. He goes to tuck his hand into his pocket before realizing, to his annoyance, that, firstly, there isn’t one and that, secondly, John seems fairly disinclined to relinquish his hand. 

“Sherlock, you never said.“

“It didn’t work.” Sherlock leans further back, as John seems determined to fence him into the tiniest corner possible. His words are almost too rapid to be followed. 

“Nothing worked. Nothing helped and I fancied, sometimes that you were still there. Do you understand how that feels? To look about and realize you are talking to thin air and may do so for the rest of your days?”

John is next to him now, his hand curling into Sherlock’s hair (where it has absolutely no right to be, for that matter). But he looks so distraught that Sherlock-----allows it. 

He allows it, that’s all. 

“It was easy, was it not?” he asks John. He’s genuinely curious and this--this is an old hurt. “To say I was a machine, efficient and cold. That love was completely anathema to me, as were all other strong emotions?”

“When did I ever say that?” John asks, baffled. 

Sherlock considers briefly, his hands going back to brace themselves on the table behind him. 

“It was during the Adler case—though perhaps it is true, at that,” he says honestly. “I have no illusions about the sort of man I am. And I spent so long resenting emotion and it's biases, that it might be considered a triumph of a sort, to have convinced the one man who knows me better than all others that I am a machine."

“It’s not true,” John says firmly. He’s quite blatantly stroking Sherlock’s hair now (like a mother to a willful child—or a lover comforting—no, most definitely a mother, of course. Still irritating. Mostly.) 

Sherlock reminds himself that he is still merely—allowing—this.

“I wouldn’t—well. I can’t deny I’ve thought it, sometimes. And I said something like it, once—but Sherlock, you’re not.”

“Emotion is as grit in a sensitive instrument to me, was your exact phrasing. If you require the reminder.” He himself most certainly doesn't-- he's not quite managed to delete the phrase, despite his best efforts.

"YOU said that-- fly in the ointment, remember?" 

No, he doesn't. Those were Watson's words, not his and yet--"A simple deduction, then," Sherlock says, though the conversation is fast slipping away from him. "That one cannot know that strong emotions are incompatible with clear reasoning unless one has, at some point, tried to reconcile them." 

"You're not being fair," John says. "It's like you aren't even talking to me- look. I can’t deny that I was a bit upset at Baskerville, what with the whole Irene thing. I might have overreacted. But that was so long ago-- are you really upset about it right now? Or is this something else?“

Sherlock cocks his head to the side, something suddenly clicking neatly into place.

“Irene Adler upset you?”

“Well, ‘course she did. She was all over you like—I don’t even know. A limpid octopus, maybe?-- and you were practically slobbering over her, it was enough to drive any man mad, let alone- well.“

He must admit that he does not remember that version of events. 

“I do believe I composed myself quite impeccably,” he says stiffly. “I hardly would use ‘slobbering’ as a descriptor.“ 

John snorts. “For anyone else, sure. But for you? Hell, you kept her mobile, Sherlock. You still have it—and all that ‘the woman’ nonsense. THE fucking woman and I felt like I was, was--what? Your bloody sidekick? What was it you said—your conductor of light?”

“Conductor of light,” Sherlock muses, distracted. “I find myself rather enamored with that turn of phrase---who said that?” 

“SHERLOCK.” 

The hand in his hair is tight to the point of pain now. John is so close that their torsos are touching and Sherlock is all too aware of his distinct lack of personal space and all too close to saying something he'll surely regret.

"Yes, yes my conductor of light then, my Boswell, what does it matter? Don’t you see that you cannot do that?” Sherlock says, fixing his glittering eyes on John’s face. “That you cannot presume that I am both a machine and then also be insulted when I am not effusive? That your version of me is simply calmly efficient and ruthlessly perfect. I am nonjudgemental, emotionless,and yet heroic in your eyes, John. To be human also then, would be so _contradictory_ that it can be neither true to life nor even remotely attainable for any man.” 

“Because you aren't human too? Bullshit, Sherlock.” 

“I may be, but the character in your stories is not, John, because you constantly assume that I am not. But only when it is convenient, it appears-and it was on that premise that you left me—because Mary needed you, you thought, and you want, always, to be needed, John Watson, and it never even occurred to you that I—“ he breaks off, as it seeps through to his befuddled brain what an image they make. John, with his hand still tangled in Sherlock’s hair, his thigh between Sherlock’s spread legs and Sherlock himself, nearly perched up on the counter, grasping at the surface behind him like a drowning man in the midst of a shipwreck.

An apt metaphor, actually. 

“This is madness,” he says incredulously. “Sheer unadulterated madness, is that what you have reduced me to now? Was leaving not enough for you?” 

“You left me,” John points out, not budging an inch. “It wasn’t as if I abandoned you Sherlock.“

“I would never have left you,” Sherlock says, desperate to make this tiny, absurd man understand. “Unless—“

“Unless you had a good reason, yeah, I know,” John says quietly. “I know.”

Sherlock had been going to say “If you had not left me first”, but he remembers, belatedly, that the timeline is too different for him to be conjecturing. 

“Look,” John continues. “We’ve made mistakes, yeah? Both of us. Sometimes it takes people a while to realize what’s really good, even if it’s right there. But they do, eventually—if you push them enough, they do.”

“You believe that?” Sherlock demands. It sounds like sentimental nonsense to him, but then, that is what Watson does best—romanticizing the ordinary. 

It is strangely comforting. 

John shrugs.

“I think you have to believe it,” he says frankly. “I think—I think you need to have that sort of hope or else you’ll never even try.” 

Sherlock wishes, sometimes, that he could have the man’s simple conviction. It would make life infinitely easier. 

He ducks out from under John's arm and looks about desperately for a diversion. Fortunately, the kitchen is rife with suggestions. 

“Food, perhaps?” he suggests, swallowing firmly. “I find myself famished and I believe there is to be nothing new gained from the—case—today, so we might as well have a bite to eat.”

He’s not entirely sure why John’s jaw drops. Surely that’s a perfectly reasonable thing to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize profusely for these endnotes. By all means skip them, they're mainly me amusing myself. Sad, I know. 
> 
> "I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose."- Sherlock Holmes, A Study in Scarlet. 
> 
> In "The Man with the Twisted Lip", Mary calls her husband "James". It's been suggested it might have been his middle name (Hamish, anyone?) or you know, just Doyle forgetting things. But I decided to be evil. 
> 
> "My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces." Sherlock Holmes, the Man with the Twisted Lip
> 
> "It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position...Grit in a sensitive instrument... would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his." --Watson, A Scandal in Bohemia. 
> 
> The original Scandal was a lot less-- Scandalous? I crack myself up. Continue. 
> 
> Holmes calls Watson his 'Conductor of light' in The Hound of the Baskervilles- but he hasn't gotten there in his timeline yet. 
> 
> Yeah, you can shoot up from a neck vein and so I did wonder. 
> 
> EXTRA NERDY BIT:
> 
> I don't consider Watson a reliable narrator and despite how strongly he professes that Holmes has no stronger emotions, Holmes himself seems to disagree with him. Consider:
> 
> "I have never loved, Watson, but if I did and if the woman I loved had met such an end, I might act even as our lawless lion-hunter has done." Holmes, The Adventure of the Devil's Foot ie, he felt murder was justified in that scenario. Which is interesting to me because in a later story:
> 
> "If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive." Sherlock Holmes, the Adventure of the Three Garridebs
> 
> "It was worth a wound, it was worth many wounds, to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask." Watson, the Adventure of the Three Garridebs (he's just been injured)
> 
> Among lots of lovely little moments in canon.


End file.
